Divine Fantasy

by Melanie Jackson

  My feet walked a little slower than usual as I rejoined Ambrose, and we went down the dark hall side by side. There were two “family” bedrooms in the house, one with a double bed, thick down comforters and a red velvet canopy with working bed curtains. The other was smaller and had a twin mattress with spooled headboard and badly faded patchwork quilt. I couldn’t quite picture Ambrose sleeping in it, but knew I couldn’t stand to be in the room myself. It was one of the places I still have nightmares about. I hadn’t stepped in there since my parents died.

  I showed him the master bedroom first, opening up the wooden shutters to let in the late afternoon light. The windows were frosted and the sunlight was cold when it touched me. I noticed that in spite of the shutters being closed, the Axminster carpet was beginning to show its age. I would need to do some work if I was going to keep the place.

  “Very nice. I’ve always liked bedrooms with fireplaces.” He touched with a gentle hand the hand-painted tiles that surrounded the firebox.

  I nodded, finding it increasingly more difficult to speak.

  It took some mental exertion to force myself across the hall and to open the narrow white door to the other bedroom. Nothing leaped out at me and said boo as I reached in and flipped on the light. There was one twenty-five-watt bulb in the fixture in the ceiling and it did little beyond make the room look dingy. The narrow bed remained plain. There were no teddy bears or dolls on the coverlet. The whole room was impersonal, not a single memento or photo to suggest a child had ever been in the house. Of course, I rarely was there, and when I came my mother made it obvious that she couldn’t wait for me to be gone. There had been no presents from her, no posing for family photos, no gifts of bedtime stories unless the maid had had time for me.

  Every other room in the house was lovingly decorated, but not this one. The message of my mother’s discomfort with the occasional visit of her unwanted child seemed clear to me even after all these years, and I feared to Ambrose also. It wasn’t the room’s fault, of course, that I felt unwelcome even now. Houses don’t remember. But I did. I had thought that I’d made all the needed mental adjustments to come back to this parental domicile, but obviously I hadn’t. It would be okay, though, if I just stayed out of that bleak cell of a room.

  I sounded surprisingly nonchalant as I said: “You can stay here or sleep with me in the other bedroom. I never go in here myself. Eventually I’m going to make it into an office. If I keep the place. I’ve been thinking of letting it go.”

  Those dark eyes studied me for a moment, and I knew that he was picking up on all the things I’d left unsaid. His mouth looked a bit grim as he took a final look around the room.

  “Let me start a fire in the living room and we’ll talk about arrangements over dinner,” he said at last. Again Ambrose reached past me, and this time turned out the light. He closed the door quietly. I knew he was thinking that sometimes it was better to let sleeping ghosts lie. How right he was. I thought I heard him add: “No wonder zombies didn’t really scare you. This must have been like living in Hell.”

  “Only colder,” I muttered.

  “Let’s get that fire started.”

  Feeling happier with the door shut on my worst memories, I opened my mouth to protest that the woodpile was probably damp and would take forever to light, but then recalled that Ambrose wouldn’t be troubled by a little thing like wet kindling.

  “Will toast and eggs be okay?” I asked, pushing past him and heading back for the comparative warmth of the kitchen.

  “As long as there’s coffee and orange juice too.”

  “Well, naturally. I would never serve naked toast and eggs.”

  Mad, adj. Affected with a high degree of intellectual independence.

  Ghost, n. The outward and visible sign of an inward fear.

  —Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

  …The other day they seized an odd man, who goes by the name of Count St. Germain. He has been here these two years, and will not tell who he is, or whence, but professes that he does not go by his right name. He sings, plays on the violin wonderfully, composes, is mad, and not very sensible. He is called an Italian, a Spaniard, a Pole; a somebody that married a great fortune in Mexico, and ran away with her jewels to Constantinople; a priest, a fiddler, a vast nobleman. The Prince of Wales has had unsatiated curiosity about him, but in vain. However, nothing has been made out against him; he is released; and, what convinces me that he is not a gentleman, stays here, and talks of his being taken up for a spy.

  —Letter from Horace Walpole, 1745

  Chapter Eleven

  As tired as I was, I couldn’t bring myself to sleep after our cozy breakfast. I urged a yawning Ambrose to go ahead and nap while I did the dishes. I think he would have volunteered to help, but he could see I truly wanted to be alone. Probably he thought I was needing some time to lay to rest some familial ghosts that our sudden visit had riled up, and that I would prefer not to have any witnesses, but it wasn’t that at all. The only thing haunting me at the moment was the lingering smell of coffee. I just needed some time to think. About Ambrose. Without Ambrose possibly listening in and hearing what I was thinking about.

  I’m all for a little healthy self-rationalization, but I’m not out-and-out delusional. I hadn’t wanted another relationship after the last debacle, and had thought that after Max I’d posted a pretty clear collection of stop, danger, radioactive signs around me to warn off any stubborn males. But our unusual circumstances on the island had run our unusual liaison right through that romantic red light and into some rough off-road conditions. As much as I would like to ignore the inconvenient truth, the fact was that Ambrose and I were in a relationship whether I wanted one or not. Just what kind it would be remained to be seen, but I was fairly certain that it was going to be more significant than the one Max and I had shared. And this would have been semiokay if my feelings toward him were strictly platonic and dutiful. But they weren’t.

  Maybe it was because we’d just spent the last twenty-four hours semicuddling on various planes. Or maybe it was that he had saved my life repeatedly by fighting off monsters and also reaching inside me to mend my heart whenever it faltered. Whatever it was, half of my mind and all of my body thought it belonged with Ambrose, and would like to get a whole lot closer to his warmth and…whatever else it was that Ambrose had.

  Logically, this seemed like a really bad idea. He wasn’t called Bitter Bierce for nothing. They also say you shouldn’t have an affair at the office because when something goes wrong on the personal side, working together could be difficult or even impossible. We were in a similar situation, minus the coffeepots or copy machines that come with the usual nine-to-five jobs.

  There was also the matter of whether Ambrose was still a bit suicidal. Or entirely sane. Or even human. Sitting where I was, it was impossible to make a judgment call on any of these things. Until I was a little clearer in my head, sharing a bed with Ambrose seemed unwise, no matter how keen the body was to do just that—and then go in and jump his bones.

  So, instead of walking down the hall and climbing into bed with the man who appealed to me above all others I had ever met, I got out my portable computer and forced myself to write the last three chapters of the book I had due. The chapters were short and not my best work, since my online notes were sketchy. What can I say? Pencils’ limited fascination had already palled, and the woman who had wanted to write about them had gotten lost somewhere between Munich and Fiji.

  I had to use the phone lines to connect to the Internet and it took forever to send the bloated file to my editor. This had me tugging on my hair in frustration, but I reminded myself that I wasn’t going to go crawl into bed with Ambrose regardless of how long it took to e-mail the book, so it was fine to spend my time doing an online submission.

  I knew that Harold would be about as thrilled with my electronic submission as he would be to find his name on a bathroom wall preceded by For a good time call, but I hoped he would f
orgive me when he read my e-mail explaining—okay, lying—that I was on a wildlife preserve in Fiji photographing endangered species for some future unspecified project, and that this was safest way to get the book to him on time. To bolster this story, I wrote a separate e-mail and sent him a cute photo of the green turtles playing at the Sylph’s Hole and one of the giant crocodile—without Saint Germain in its stomach.

  Fifteen minutes later, I shut the computer down and wandered into the bathroom. The house was warm enough by then that a wallow in the old tub sounded appealing. I rummaged through the brittle wicker cupboard where the towels were stored and found a small cut-glass jar half full of withered bath beads. Though visually unattractive, they still smelled appealing. I sniffed happily at the glass container with my eyes shut, sorting out the various faded hints of musk, black orchid and rose. The oils hadn’t gone bad but they were only shadows of their former selves. Reaching into the billows of steam gushing from the taps, I upended the cut-glass jar and shook it until all the withered green beads had fallen into the frothing water and began to break apart in swirls of emerald color.

  Further rummaging through the cabinet produced a razor—a little rusted in spots, but I was current with my tetanus booster so decided to chance it rather than go a moment longer with stubbly armpits and legs—and a large towel which was in fact my father’s old terry-cloth robe. It had yellowed a bit, but the dried lavender bundles tucked inside the cupboard had left it with a nice old-lady scent.

  I undressed quickly, hanging my clothes on the brass hooks on the back of the bathroom door. Humming “Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man of Mine,” I turned off the gushing taps and slowly lowered myself into the strange-colored water. It was hot—too hot for safety, since my blood pressure tended to drop out from under me without warning—but I nevertheless folded myself into the giant tub and then stretched out to my full length, bracing my toes on the far end.

  Sighing, I closed my eyes and pretended that I was in a natural hot springs. With Ambrose. At night. And we were all alone. It took a minute to lower my inhibitions enough to script a decent monologue of sweet nothings for him to whisper in my ear. I think maybe I fell asleep.

  “Joyous?” At first I wasn’t sure if the voice was real or in my fantasy. Either way it made my skin prickle in spite of the water’s heat. “Joyous, are you okay?”

  “I’m in the bath!” I called at last, realizing this wasn’t my fantasy Ambrose calling to me from my dream. I glanced down and found my body still obscured by milky green water. “You can come in,” I added bravely. And probably unwisely, if I was really thinking I wanted to stay uninvolved.

  At my invitation he opened the door and walked into the bathroom, but he stopped suddenly just inside the door, feet planted firmly on the black and white marble tile. I watched him close his midnight eyes and inhale deeply of the swirling steam.

  “I had forgotten the pleasure—the pure blessing—of having the scent of a woman hovering about the house like a guardian angel,” he murmured, opening his eyes and taking a step toward the tub. His face was smiling, his expression almost dreamy. I guess he had found some ghosts in the house as well, and he was pleased at the reacquaintance.

  In my mind, I reached for him. He might have protested since my hands were wet, but since it was my fantasy he let me touch him, let me undo the buttons of his fly so he spilled out of crisp new jeans and into my eager hands. His flesh was glowing gold against my pale skin and hotter even than the bathwater. I rolled onto my knees and leaned forward. I set lips against him and began to—

  “Joyous?” His voice was a question but also a bit shocked, and my eyes flashed open again. It was a relief to find that I was still on my back and modestly covered in green water. Unless you really squinted, my telltale nipples didn’t show.

  Disconcerted both by my thoughts and Ambrose’s sudden stillness, I slid a little deeper in the bath and concentrated hard on the faucet whose fluted mouth was scaled with mineral deposits.

  “Were you able to sleep?” I asked, hoping that the sudden rush of embarrassed heat to my face didn’t mean I was about to faint. That would be adding insult to embarrassment.

  “Yes.” He retreated a step and then sank down gracefully against the wall, keeping his distance from the tub. He had one knee bent so that I couldn’t see his lower body. Not that I turned my head, but I had this feeling amounting to certainty that somehow Ambrose had read my mind, and his body had reacted to my mentally copping a feel—and he was somewhat disconcerted by it.

  “I finished my book and sent it to my editor,” I said cheerfully. “He won’t like the electronic submission, but I don’t think he’ll complain since I am so near the deadline.”

  “And if he does?” I think this question was asked randomly.

  “I don’t really plan on reading my e-mail for a while, so it doesn’t much matter.”

  “We may have to,” he answered, finally straightening his right leg. “Read e-mail, that is.”

  “Yes?” I allowed my head to turn in his direction. Only my eyes peeped over the rim of the tub, and I felt fairly safe behind my cast-iron barricade since I could only see him from the chest up. His eyes were again calm, his expression carefully blank. I hoped that mine were as unreadable.

  “I placed a couple of…personal ads before we left Fiji.”

  “Personal ads?” I said blankly, at first unable to place these in a context that made sense. I was certain that Ambrose wasn’t planning a garage sale or asking for blind dates with single white females.

  “Yes. I asked that I be contacted at a public message board where I have previously found…interesting conversations.”

  “Would these be ads about our little zombie problem?” I asked, the last of my arousal fading away as I was brought back to reality.

  “They would. I feel it is time to test my theory that there are others like me out there and that they are using The Weekly World News and other tabloids to communicate with one another.”

  Others like me. Translation: other zombie-killing superheroes.

  “Oh!” This information made me feel a bit cheerful, and countered some of my letdown. I really liked the idea of us not being alone in this mess.

  “Do you want to use my computer now?” I asked. “Feel free. It’s on the kitchen table.”

  “Yes, but I can’t touch it right now. I’m somewhat…agitated. Even if I wear rubber gloves I’ll short it out, so I’m afraid the job is yours.”

  “I forgot about that.” I also hadn’t been thinking about what could happen to me in an iron tub filled with water if I actually reached for Ambrose while he was agitated. “Well, just hand me that robe and—”

  “There is no hurry,” Ambrose said, getting to his feet. I watched him move, thinking that ballet dancers should be so graceful. He kept his eyes turned away from me. Perhaps it was simply good manners, but I suspected that he was as unnerved by the appearance of my suddenly libidinous thoughts as I. It was likely that he had been thinking of me as something fragile that had to be protected, not as a potential lover. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. A foolish part of me was inclined to be insulted at his failure to perceive me as more sexually attractive than vulnerable. “Finish your bath and then we’ll take a look at the message board.”

  “Okay,” I said, but reached for the robe as soon as he was gone. Proof that we weren’t alone would relax me even more than lingering in hot, scented water. It might even keep me from having further dangerous thoughts about what I’d like to do to Ambrose.

  No: you were fully and clearly warned. For your bad deeds, vicarious atonement, mercy without justice. For your good deeds, justice without mercy.

  —Don Juan in Hell by George Barnard Shaw

  Kill, v.t. To create a vacancy without nominating a successor.

  Non-Combatant, n. A dead Quaker.

  —Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

  I will knock down the Gates of the Netherworld, I will smash the doorpost
s, and leave the doors flat down, and will let the dead go up to eat the living! And the dead will outnumber the living!

  —Epic of Gilgamesh

  Chapter Twelve

  It took a while to get logged in to the lutinempire message board, mostly because Ambrose couldn’t remember his screen name at first. It was M7864—an impossible to remember cyber-name, at least for my nonalphanumeric brain, so we changed it right away to Bitter1. His password was devil. Not the most original or secure, I admit, but it was something we could both remember. Ambrose leaned over my shoulder as I typed. I could smell his skin and felt the heat that always radiated from his body. It should have been relaxing, but wasn’t. My continued arousal was annoying, and I was certain that it had something to do with his scent. He had to be packing some major pheromones.

  Once we were on the board I had to scroll through the various strange messages and topics until I found the thread Ambrose wanted. Many of the discussions I bypassed were intriguing in an anthropological kind of way—especially I HAD BIG FOOT ’S BABY! —but the one Ambrose pointed to made me smile grimly: CHILDREN OF THE DARK MAN RECOVERY GROUP

  I clicked. The message was short, but it didn’t need to say more to attract the attention of those in the know.

  Bitter1 says: Looking for lost kin to start recovery group in New England area. Member of Paris chapter would like to help. Must be fan of 19th-century adventure novels. Shall we meet for New Year’s?

  “You’ve had a bite. Several bites,” I said, at first surprised and pleased. My delight didn’t last long. I scrolled past some obviously disturbed posters who clearly knew nothing about the real Dark Man—and entirely too much about Satan—until Ambrose stopped me. I thought at first he was pointing at a post about wanting to have relations with the Devil, but quickly reconsidered when it got pornographic. I realized that he was pointing out the post below it.